


The Angel from his dreams

by Darth_Retaliation



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anakin thinks of Padme, Male Solo, Masturbation, Mention of Padmé, Padawan, wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 20:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11722425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Retaliation/pseuds/Darth_Retaliation
Summary: Pre AOTC, Anakin thinks of Padme and, um, yeah...Yet, as much as he relishes in the beauty of them, of her, it is his dreams that bring him the most of pain. Not a single wound, not a single disapproving glance from his master, not even the pain he felt when he had to say goodbye to his mother. Nothing compares to the pain caused by not being able to see the Angel from his dreams.





	The Angel from his dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Is this really necessary? We all know I own nothing. Neither one of us does...
> 
> Rating: NC-17
> 
> A/N: It was the middle of Camp NaNoWriMo. I was sick (so goddamn sick) of my WIP and the 1st POV. I needed an outlet. I'm sorry.
> 
> A/N 2: I should mention that this...thing hasn't had a beta-reader look for any mistakes. So, you know, if someone wants to point out any kind of mistake (I'm sure there's lots of those) on my part, please point them out :) Also, English isn't my first language (just so you know).

**_"Dreams are true while they last,  
and do we not live in dreams?"_ **

**-Alfred Lord Tennyson  
**

His dreams - he drowns in them. Drowns in the pleasure; drowns in the radiance; drowns in the beauty. They make him clamour for something he isn't quite able to comprehend.

His dreams - they come in cool, compelling colours; cascading streaks of green, blue, and the softest of lavenders. They are the colours he associates with Naboo, her home.

Padme...

Not a day can pass without thoughts of Padme infiltrating his mind. During his waking hours, he often loses himself in a world of daydreams which have nothing to do with meditating or Jedi history or practising his lightsaber technique. When he is supposed to be finding his center and conditioning his muscles through graceful katas repetitions, he is instead concentrating on the memory of a pair of curved lips and hearing the remnants of her sweet voice calling his name. More times than he can count he feels the painful rap of Master Yoda's glimmer stick or receives a blistering dressing down from a long suffering Obi Wan.

Anakin takes each punishment without complaint, oblivious to a reality which cannot possibly compare to the future he is building with Padme in his head. The Jedi can control many things but they can't control his thoughts or, more importantly, his dreams. He takes comfort in the knowledge his imagination and mind are his and his alone.

Yet, as much as he relishes in the beauty of them, of her, it is his dreams that bring him the most of pain. Not a single wound, not a single disapproving glance from his master, not even the pain he felt when he had to say goodbye to his mother. Nothing compares to the pain caused by not being able to see the Angel from his dreams.

Everything aches: his head, his throat, his heart, his rapidly hardening body on the verge of becoming a man. At times, he can't catch his breath in these dreams; she steals it with her beauty and he never fights her for it, gives it to her gladly. But, when he reaches out for her, she's maddeningly elusive, dancing away from his outstretched hands time and time again.

Anakin tosses and turns, twisting and kicking his sheets into a tangled mess at the foot of his bed, and like always, awakens with the phantom traces of her fragrance teasing him, daring him to try and catch her. The scent mingles with the rich tang of musk and sweat, creating an intoxicating perfume which permeates his small room. It makes him lightheaded, almost dizzy.

For months she has been torturing him like this, in some variation or another returning to stir up his confusion and doubts, frustrating him to the core. His inability to have what he most wants, even if it is only in the intangible world of sleep, is a corrosive acid in his belly.

He knows it's wrong for a Jedi to have wants and desires. A Jedi shouldn't feel this way. But he cannot help it. He knows he is different, set apart from the other Padawans. Maybe, if he tried harder - just a little bit harder - maybe they would stop with the suspicious glances and murmurs everywhere he went. That's what one part of his mind is whispering. The other, the source of his stubbornness and the one that is always shouting, is wondering why he even cares. It became evident within the first year of his training that he would never be the perfect Jedi they envisioned.

He's only half aware of the place inside him where something - a feeling, an idea, a truth - begins to take shape, to coalesce and form. A longing rises up, bittersweet and sharp in the back of his throat, and his heart clenches. He's a boy no longer. Then why does he keep acting like one? Why is he determined to please everyone? To set aside his wants and desires and be treated like a burden? He was born for better - he was meant for great things no matter what the Jedi Council had to say about the matter.

Uncontrollable anger rises inside of him. Frustration feeds him. It took him five years to realise such a simple thing.

He's not a boy anymore. He is the Chosen One - he doesn't need to prove himself in front of anyone. He has emotions, wants and desires.

And as his hand trails down his taut stomach towards the bulge in his sleep pants, he decides that he was not ashamed of them. After all, It was impossible to erase an angel from a young man's head. Pilots and traders filled his impressionable young mind with incredible stories about angels - wondrous creatures whose beauty defied description. Hardened spacers who killed and robbed without a thought grew misty-eyed when talking about those rumoured beings that were good and kind and rare to behold.

When he finally saw one, the memory got frozen in his head like a holograph. A memory he won't give up easily.

A heavy shudder rolls down his frame, and he gasps, hesitantly allowing his fingers to brush his erect member through the thin material of his sleep-pants. It was a strange feeling, and yet... pleasant.

More groans as he ran his thumb along the side of his cock. He hesitates as if someone could hear him, before sliding his hand under the pants, slowly tracing his touch up his length. The pressure of his hand mirrors the pressure he'd felt building in his stomach all this time. He keeps the touches light, still half-afraid of what he was doing.

The Padawan curls his right hand around his cock, finger by finger, holds himself like that, getting used to it, before trying a few slow, tight strokes experimentally up and down his length, his stomach clenching and jumping. It was so damn good. Too good; good enough to make sweat bead on his lip and his heart hammer in his chest, feeling his pulse beat.

He stops abruptly. Impatiently, he discards of his pants and sprays on the mattress, legs wide apart. His bared skin prickles in the slightly cool air.

His breath hitches a little as he strokes his cock at a leisurely pace, touching himself so lightly he barely ghosted over his hard flesh. Slowly, his other hand trails lower, cupping his balls, squeezing and tugging.

Beads of sweat drip down the Padawan's forehead as the leisured stroking dissolves into a steady and fast pumping. His breathing starts getting faster and his pace quickens. His cock squirms, hips arching from the bed into his hand as he strokes himself. He's practically melting into his own touch, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging open. Desperately trying to keep quiet.

Faster now he strokes, and deeper. He pants softly and moves his other hand from cupping his balls to bracing himself on it, and now it was only his right hand touching his skin. Leaning back further, on his elbow now, and Padme in his mind, crystal clear and jumbled all at once...

Almond eyes in a heart shaped face. Long brown hair confined in a tail that hung down her back to swing enticingly when she moved. Slender and petite, she held herself with an inbred grace and dignity.

He tilts his head back as he feels himself getting closer and closer to the edge. His strokes longer now, even tighter, and when he brushes over the head the sensation almost becomes too much.

A quick snap of his hips and a sharp whisper – fuck – and he does it again, his hips arching up as if eager for the touch when he occasionally circles and teases the head, his mind wandering back to Padme - imaging it was her doing this to him.

That's the last straw - the thing that sends him tumbling over the edge - back arching as he comes, spilling over his hand in a rough, forceful orgasm, head turning sideways to force his face into one the pillows as he all but screams out his release.

Sweaty and suddenly boneless, he sprawls on the bed.

 


End file.
